


Chastity Chip

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Forced Orgasm, M/M, Medical Kink, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sorta kink meme fill. I wrote it yesterday on breaks at work.  Chastity chips are just a silly bit of headcanon I just made up for this fic. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chastity Chip

Perceptor cringed the second he heard the PA system crackle on. Because he knew where Drift was.  And he was all too aware of Brainstorm across the workbench from him, and the way Brainstorm’s audials perked. 

A throaty chuckle, instantly recognizable as Rodimus’s.  “Oh, frag, Drift.  You know,” the voice muffled against something, “It’s pretty impressive,” a huff, syncopated and short, just the right tempo for a sharp thrust,  “how tight your valve is.” Huff.  “You know, with all the,” another pause, “use it gets.” 

A soft moan, and some half-formed words mumbled indistinctly, and then a crackle and click and the comm shut off.

Silence stretched to the point of creaking, and Perceptor could feel Brainstorm’s yellow optics studying him.  Waiting.  Perceptor mashed his lip plates against each other, trying too hard not to show any emotion. 

It was only a matter of time before Brainstorm broke the silence: Perceptor imagined he was calculating the worst line, most cutting, against some algorithm.

He knew it was coming, like a missile he could hear singing through the air. 

“Well,” Brainstorm said, finally. “That was…interesting.”

Perceptor said nothing, turning too studiously to check the settings on the pheretic alembic, goaded but refusing to rise.

Brainstorm, however, sharpened his barb. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“Bother me?” Perceptor feigned an ignorant blink. “I suppose I could check on the public address circuitry, yes. It was distracting.”

“Distracting.” A chortle, as though he’d scored a point. He had, and he knew how deep his thorn struck, despite how shallow the seeming injury. “You know, he probably wouldn’t do that if you took care of business yourself.”

A cold sort of something—shock, affront, rage—ran through him, stabbing right to the sorest part of his insecurities.  “My relationship is none of your business,” he said, coldly, knowing how transparent he was, how hurt, and not caring as long as Brainstorm shut up.

“It sure is everyone else’s,” Brainstorm chortled, blatantly, ruthlessly, not taking the hint. 

Perceptor shuttered his optics for a long moment, before rising. He couldn’t take any more. Maybe it was cowardice, but he preferred to frame it as boundaries. Drift had none: he had some, and one of them was not to talk about things with Brainstorm. “I need to check the titration of the neutronium ore sample,” he said, forcing his voice calm.

“Sure thing,” Brainstorm sang out, sweetly. He could afford to sound happy: he’d won.

[***]

A tap at his door, even after it opened: Drift’s face, peeking around the frame, with a sheepish sort of grimace.  “…hey.”

Perceptor laid aside the datapad. “Come in.” Pretend nothing’s wrong. Because nothing is wrong, Perceptor. You agreed to this. You arranged this, in fact. You have no right to complain when your ‘logical solution’ happens to please the head but hurt the spark.

“Have, uh, have a good day?” Drift edged into the room. It hurt to see him like this, so aware he’d transgressed.

When he hadn’t.

“Productive,” Perceptor said.

“Right. Productive’s good.” A flash of a smile, and Drift settled himself, uneasily, on the desk.  “I…can we talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” There really wasn’t.

“Well. I mean. It’s a problem. And I’m sorry.”

Perceptor’s spark ached at the sincerity, the blue optics lambent with hurt.  Drift never wanted to hurt him, and it wasn’t his fault that Drift’s libido was just, well, more than he could handle. Drift was always a bit too much.

“It’s not a problem, Drift. You’re free to be with whoever you want.”

“But I want you to be happy,” Drift said. In a way, he was so childlike, lost and perplexed when two things he wanted collided.  “I was thinking, you know, maybe there was something we could do.” 

“Do.”

“To, you know, turn me off or something.” He gave a shrug, helpless. 

“Turn you off.” 

“Like…you know, ratchet it down or something. So I can be more like you.”

When all this time, Perceptor would have killed for Drift’s sensuality, his easy desire entirely unblocked by awkwardness and self-hate.  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“C-could you ask around, at least?” The optics dropped to his hands, embarrassed. Drift, who could do things sexually Perceptor couldn’t imagine, but who couldn’t bring himself to talk about any of it. It was somehow endearing.

“I could.” It was little enough. “If you really want me to.”

The optics came up to meet his. “I do. Please. For you.”

[***]

“Yeah I’ve heard of them,” Ratchet said, giving that ‘wow I really don’t want to talk about this’ vibe he did so well. “Old technology, prewar.  The upper classes used them.”  The only ones who had time and money to make simple things like this a problem.  “Called Chastity Chips.”

“That sounds…a bit more than what we were thinking.”

Ratchet shrugged. “I didn’t name ‘em. Some were customizable, you know, keyed to only one mech’s EM field. Some were adjustable and whoever had a control cube could level it up or down.”

“That could be…abused.”

“Yes.” A pointed stare. “I hope that’s not what you had in mind.”

Perceptor shook his head,  hard, almost alarmed. “Of course not. Just something to, well, give him more control.”

“Him. He’s sure about this.”

“It was his suggestion.”

“Look. Drift’s problem is, well, as they say on Earth, it takes two to tango.”

“Yes.” He was more than aware of that.  And this wouldn’t stop other mechs from hitting on him.  But it was something, and Drift wanted it.

“All right.  I’ll see what I can do.”

“You can’t right now?”

Ratchet shot him a look. “Sex drive chips aren’t exactly in basic medical stores,” he said. “Not really a priority during the war.” 

Another sign how things had changed, Perceptor thought. “All right.” What else could he say? It made sense.  And Ratchet had said he’d try. 

[***]

“You look tired, Percy.”  Brainstorm’s voice, chirruping sweetly, bustling into the lab.

Perceptor twitched. He hated that truncation of his name, and especially from Brainstorm.  “I’m fine.”

“Oooooooof course you are.” The smaller mech slipped past him, toward the small refrigerated cabinet. “Just coming in to grab some stuff. I’ll be in the cybernetics lab down the hall if anything interesting happens.”  He gathered up a few tools, a dataslug and a chilled box of energon beverage, juggling them as he opened the door. “Figure you could use a break from being around me.”

He meant, of course, the pressure of being around his genius, but Perceptor took it at bland face value. “Yes. I appreciate it.”  A day without Brainstorm snerking and judging his every move? Almost like heaven.

“Thought you might.” Brainstorm stopped in the doorway, suddenly. “And hey, if I kick as much intellectual aft as I know I’m going to, I might just give your boyfriend a little test drive.”  A tip of the helm that in another mech would be a smirk. “Heard from Swerve he gives a hell of a blow job.”

“Swerve--.”  The name slipped out before he could stop himself. Swerve? He’d heard about Rodimus, and there had been one time with Red Alert, apparently, and that gratitude sex with First Aid after Delphi,  that…thing with Cyclonus, and Drift had probably tried, at least, with Ratchet, but…Swerve?

“Yeah, something about a bet about getting Swerve to shut up.” A wink. “Any consolation, I think your boy won.”

And the door whooshed shut in the sudden silence, the same sound as if all the air had been shoved forcibly from Perceptor’s vents.

[***]

“You sure you want to do this.” Ratchet frowned at Drift, who was in that half-sitting up pose of a not-really-obedient patient.

“Yes,” Drift said, solemnly. He reached over, for Percpetor’s hand.  “Please.”

“We appreciate it,” Perceptor said, feeling he needed to say, well, something supportive.  He closed Drift’s hand in his. 

“It’s a device, not a solution,” Ratchet said, even has he laid out the tools, one hand flicking open Drift’s access panel.

“It’s just,” Drift said, “I need control.  I mean, just a little.”

“I would advise you to see Rung, as well,” Ratchet said. “In his professional capacity.”

Drift gave a contrite nod. “I will. I promise.”

Ratchet’s mouth pulled down on one side, as though he’d run out of objections. “All right. And careful monitoring. You’re in here once a decacycle for a check.”

“Ratchet,” Drift said, “it’ll be fine.”

[***]

That night was…heaven, Perceptor thought. Drift had been drowsy from the sensorblock, the new coding filtering its slow way through his systems, and they’d curled up on Perceptor’s berth, in a cozy tangle. It was wrong to want Drift like this, and not how he was, Perceptor thought, even as he found himself nuzzling against Drift, more open in his affections now that he felt they wouldn’t push Drift to that edge, where he would beg, needing to get off, needing overload as though desire hurt.

But Drift seemed contented himself, almost as if a burden had been lifted. He seemed surprised at himself, his own responses, how he could enjoy touching, simply touching, without it having to lead anywhere. It was as though he’d never had this before, never realized the sensual apart from the sexual.

They barely recharged, and even that was a fuzzy golden haze of touch and intimacy, and Perceptor woke, for the first time in a long time, with a smile on his mouthplates.

[***]

“Ratchet,” Rung’s face, somehow anxious, over comm. “Do you have a moment?”

Anyone else, Ratchet could be impatient toward, but not Rung, and Rung wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. He gave a sharp nod, and muttered some instructions to Ambulon before heading into his office, transferring the call to a secure feed. “What’s the matter?” Because Rung wouldn’t be bothering him if there wasn’t something wrong.

“It’s, uh,” Rung’s optics flitted to the door of what Ratchet knew would be his waiting room, “It’s about Drift.”

“Drift.” He had a bad feeling already.

“This is, please, strictly doctor-patient confidentiality,” Rung said.

That didn’t sound reassuring in the least—like cushioning a blow with a concrete block.  Ratchet just waited.

“Drift and I, uh, well, this is a bit difficult and I’m not quite sure exactly how it  happened, but…we, uh, we interfaced. In my office. Yesterday.” Rung gave a nervous grimace.

Well, at least he made a clean breast of it, Ratchet thought. That was probably the bright side.  If there even was one. “Did he force you?” His supraorbital ridges knitted under his chevron, one hand sliding to open a channel to Ultra Magnus.  Old acquaintance or not, he wasn’t going to give Drift slack for that.

Rung looked as though he was hoping the ship would enter a singularity right about….now.  “No. He, uh he didn’t force me.”  

Ratchet wasn’t trying to pry, this time, he was just, for once, flabbergasted, without words.  Even his usual cynicism failed him, and he knew he was just sitting there, openmouthed at the monitor. Part of him wanted to ask ‘how’ but the other just really, really didn’t want to know. 

Rung’s voice was small. “It was just supposed to be a harmless bit of roleplay.” 

“You…roleplay sex. With your patients.” Right, finger on the Ultra Magnus comm again.

“No!” Well, at least  he sounded suitably shocked. “We were talking about that device you, erm, installed and how he wanted to work on being able to reject advances and….” And Rung covered his face with his hands.

“And he clearly needs more work on that,” Ratchet finished, dryly.

A whimpering nod from the other end of the comm. “But that’s not why I commed.”

“Obviously.” You know, why just comm to break Ratchet’s brain?  Surely there had to be something even worse lurking out there. 

“It’s because, well, he, uh, he doesn’t appear to be able to, um, climax.”

“Oh.”

“And, erm, we definitely tried.” A wince of embarrassment.

“I imagine.” Even though he didn’t want to.

Rung’s voice dropped to a whisper. “…and he’s very creative with positions.”

All right, that was about all the sanity-busting Ratchet could take for one day. His glare silenced Rung with a squeak. “Right. I’ll deal with it.” Oh, he’d deal with it all right. He knew this was a bad idea.

[***]

“Where the frag is Drift?” Ratchet stormed out of his office. The third-in-command hadn’t answered his comm, even when Ratchet flagged it Urgent, and in light of recent events, he didn’t want to think what that meant, namely that Hurricane Drift was making landfall on another unsuspecting mech.

Ambulon looked up from the intake desk. “He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be: at his appointment with First Aid.”

Oh. Primus. No.

“Everything all right?” Ambulon’s voice had a certain ‘oh frag don’t tell me I don’t really want to know’ note that Ratchet wished he could share in.

“Nothing. I got this.”  He wheeled around, striding toward the exam room First Aid preferred. This had better be a normal fraggin’ check up or…

…or he was going to have to think of something dire. Because the door opened to Drift, on the exam berth, head lolling back in slow, small arcs, in time with the tempo First Aid was setting, riding his spike. Drift’s vents came in gasping pants, his hands kneading the former-nurse’s thighs.  First Aid was rocking on top of him, murmuring, wildly, “Oh frag. Drift. Oh….frag, I’m going to…!” over and over in a loop, his hands little claws in the air, as though wanting to grasp for some balance.

“You’re going to get off our patient,” Ratchet said, sharply.

First Aid squeaked, hips bucking up off Drift in alarm, the spike popping from his valve. “R-ratchet!” 

“What the frag do you call this?”  Bad porn was what Ratchet would call it.

“I-uh, I was just examining the…uh,…” First Aid withered. 

“That’s not how we do exams. And Drift, cover up your damn spike.” Really. No one wanted to see that, the red and white, edged in black, the way it glistened with lubricant….

Right. On topic.  And with a side order of scowl. He rounded back on First Aid. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I…I think the chip is malfunctioning.”  First Aid gave a sort of ‘meep’ behind his mask.

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “You think. What fraggin’ gave it away and DRIFT YOU GET YOUR MOUTH OUT OF THERE RIGHT NOW.”

Madhouse. His medibay was turning into a madhouse.

Of porn.

“Please,” Drift whimpered, his hands still clinging to First Aid’s thighs, mouth slick with valve lubricant. “I want to, but I can’t.”

“Can’t. Really.”

Drift writhed. “Honestly. I’ve tried. It’s worse. I can’t even, you know, just for a minute.” He looked honestly distressed, and all the anger that Ratchet had been fuming evaporated.  “Help?” he said, pitifully.

[***]

“Emergency meeting,” Ratchet said. Then paused, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s Drift.”

Rodimus shrugged, looking past Ratchet to the exam room, where Drift squirmed, alone, his hands idly stroking his spike. “Seems fine to me.”

“Disruptive,” Ultra Magnus said, with the weight of judgment.

Perceptor merely hunched in his chair. This was awful. And it wasn’t his idea, but he’d gone along with it, and honestly, he’d enjoyed the idea, that Drift would be less…wild, less prone to straying. It was almost poetic justice that it had backfired.

“The chip seems to be malfunctioning,” First Aid offered, his armor scrunched and small, as though trying to be as not-here as possible. 

“Chip.” Ultra Magnus frowned. “He got chipped?”

Ratchet nodded, faltering. Not something he really liked admitting.

“And that’s definitely a malfunction.”

Another nod. 

“He can’t,” First Aid added, “uh, finish.”

“Finish.”

Well, who knew? Something that rose instantaneously to the permanent and forever peak of Things Ratchet Never Wanted to Have to Do: explain interfacing to Ultra Magnus. “Climax. Overload. The discharge of pent up electrical curr—“

“I know what an overload is,” Ultra Magnus said, drawing himself up to his full height. 

“Well, in theory, anyway,” Rodimus smirked.

“Not helping,” Ratchet snapped. “the point is, the chip’s malfunctioning and Drift is, well, in danger of suffering an electrostatic, uh, incident.” 

“Incident.”

“Is there a fraggin’ echo in here?” Ratchet glowered at Ultra Magnus. “Incident.  Core meltdown. Spark fusion. It’s bad.”

“How do we fix it?” Perceptor said, speaking for the first time, expecting all optics to turn on him, scalding him with blame. “Tell me there’s a way.” He’d do anything to undo the last decacycle, anything to go back to merely being jealous and teased. 

“I think Drift is trying to do it,” First Aid said, moving to the observation window.  “I think he’s trying to overload but just, well, isn’t getting enough stimulation.”

“Heeeeeey,” Rodimus pouted. “He gets plenty of that.”

“Not right now,” First Aid said. “And he’s used to getting, you know, just one at a, uh, a time.”  He shrank back behind his datapad, optics skating to Perceptor, as though expecting to get hit.

Ratchet sighed. “I think he’s right.”

“Wait. Wait. So you’re saying—prescribing—as the Chief Medical Officer of the Lost Light,” Rodimus’s face split into a grin, “that we ‘face Drift senseless.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “Not in those exact words. But. Yes.”

“Count me in.”  Rodimus chuckled, “Frag, I love this job.”

[***]

Well.

They’d tried. 

That is, Perceptor and Rodimus had tried, the latter with a considerable enthusiasm, the former almost embarrassed, even as Drift had rolled to his belly, mouth seeking his spike, Rodimus eagerly shifting to thrust into Drift’s valve from behind.

His third overload had done Rodimus in, his knee actuators wobbly, hands shaking, and still, still, Drift hadn’t overloaded.  “Skids,” Rodimus said, gasping for air. “Maybe Skids could help.”

Ratchet elbowed himself off the wall, shaking his head. Skids might have some stamina but, well, he’d been watching Perceptor this whole time and the last thing he wanted was to make Perceptor watch Drift with another mech. It had been painful enough for him to watch Drift with Rodimus.  “I’ll do it.”

Rodimus blinked, even as Ratchet stepped over, pulling Drift’s knee apart, with a medic’s dispassionate touch.  Ratchet gave Rodimus that ‘you’re done here goodbye’ look, that propelled even the ship’s captain toward the door. Ratchet turned back to where Perceptor stood, in an unbalanced agony, on the far side of the mediberth. “You don’t have to stay, either.”

“I can handle it,” Perceptor said. Ratchet had his doubts, but he shrugged. He wasn’t going to question. He’d thought there was something going on between them, something that all the skill of his hands couldn’t fix.

He turned back to Drift, who lay moaning softly on the berth, one hand slipping over his equipment, fingers spreading, sliding in the silvery transfluid leaking from his valve. Right, Ratchet. You made a mess, and here it is…all messy. You’re going to fix it. 

Ratchet leaned forward, cupping one hand behind Drift’s helm, pressing his mouth close to the other’s audio.  “Drift.”  A soft whimper back, the body arching up against his. He could feel the slick heat of the open valve against his thigh, his own interface equipment slowly warming online. “Drift. I’m going to spike you.” Drift’s hands clutched at his shoulders, venting little bursts of hot air down Ratchet’s front. 

“Look at me, Drift,” Ratchet said, and waited until the febrile blue optics met his, Drift’s dentae worrying his lower lip.  “I’m going to spike you. And you’re going to overload when I do.” A look of puzzlement in the white mech’s face.  “You’re going to overload when I do, because I said so. Got it?” An uncertain nod, which Ratchet answered with one of his own, before pushing back, his hand freeing his spike. 

Frag. Was he really going to do this?

Apparently so.  He pushed forward, his spike sliding into the still-warm valve, the lining sliding silkily over his intruding spike. He moved slowly, parting the valve lining, feeling the warm transfluid ooze against him.  His spike snugged home, the calipers cinching down over it, spike seated against the ceiling node. He caught Drift’s optics again, his hand moving to the mech’s spike cover, pinging it open with one sharp flick of his fingers on the thin metal. “Amateurs,” he muttered to himself. For all of Perceptor’s and Rodimus’s effort and zeal, they hadn’t thought of this?  That’s why he was the CMO.

His hand began stroking the spike, long, slow pulls, twisting at the end, the base of his thumb riding against the underside’s sensitized nodes.  Drift began moving on the berth, twisting into the touch, rising his hips off and on, moving Ratchet’s spike along the circumference of his valve nodes. “Ohhhh,” Drift murmured, “ohhhh,” his hands clutching at his own chassis. 

This was weird. Beyond weird. This was by far the weirdest thing he’d ever done as a medical treatment. And with Drift, who would always be, for some reason, that little addict from the gutters, lost and not wanting to be found. 

It didn’t take long—he didn’t have a medic’s forged hands for nothing, though, honestly, he doubted that handjobs were their intended purpose. But they could read the energy field of Drift’s body, of his spike, one hand stroking along Drift’s inner thigh, along that magnetic little well of energy between the spike mounting and valve rim, while the other stroked and teased and pulled on the spike, while his own spike picked up a tempo, pushing steadily, firmly, into the valve.

“Drift,” he said, getting the white mech’s attention, the white helm snapping to his just as the heat and tingling pressure building in his belly snapped out, chasing release.  “now.”

A split-klik, and then Drift’s engines howled: Drift’s body jumped up, off the berth, the calipers clamping down on Ratchet’s throbbing spike, his own spike sending a strong jet of transfluid between them, which spattered, like a rain of silver coins, back on his chassis, his belly, and one errant droplet, on his lip. 

Ratchet could smell it from here even over the sweet tang of heated transfluid and fractioned lubricant—he could smell the acrid sharpness of a burned out chip. Done.  Done.

He sagged down, palms on either side of Drift’s waist, his own ventilations coming in deep heaves. It had been, well, longer than he should probably admit, himself, and Drift was, he wouldn’t lie, very, very good.  “Feeling better?” Right. Because wrapping yourself in Medical Ethics was really going to work right now.

Drift nodded, his optics still struggling to focus. He winced, as Ratchet moved, slowly easing his spike from the valve.  “Sore,” Drift said, his voice small. “I’m sore. All over.”

“To be expected.” And he had a lot more he wanted to say—to yell at both of them for this whole stupid idea , to yell at himself for agreeing to his part. But medicine meant sometimes you had to hold off on the strong medicine until the patient can take it.  He edged the rest of his way from the valve, careful of Drift’s pain, looking up to meet Perceptor’s too bland gaze. “He’ll need some care.” Perceptor nodded, pushing himself off the wall, and Ratchet could see, as he moved to leave, the gentle, almost apologeticc touches of Perceptor’s hands over Drift’s sore body, and he thought that maybe, maybe, something could heal from this.

[***]

“Missed you yesterday,” Brainstorm said. “Means a lot of science got done.”

Perceptor met the smaller mech’s gaze evenly. No. He wasn’t going to go there anymore. He wasn’t going to let Brainstorm get under his plating. It had worked before because of his own insecurity—he’d handed Brainstorm weapons to use against him. He wouldn’t again. Yesterday, he’d spent the whole day with Drift, bathing him, feeding him, and just being with him. It didn’t matter what happened now:  Drift was his in the ways that mattered most.  “I’m glad to hear it.”

A disappointed twitch and a rebound. “Heard things went kind of south with your boyfriend. Kind of went on some kind of kink road trip or something.”

“The chip malfunctioned,” Perceptor said, flatly, turning to crank on the distilling heater again.

“Did it?” That amused, razor sharp tone.

Perceptor froze, his hand on the dial to adjust the heat of the flame, as something seemed to click into place. Brainstorm. The cybernetics lab. The chip. His optics shuttered, the small insecurities blasted from his mind by a frothing cold tsunami of hate.  He looked over at the other mech, and when he spoke, his voice was ice-frigid. “It was poorly made, at any rate,” he said. A cheap shot, but he knew, even if Brainstorm did not, that it was the first small shot in what was going to be a very long war between them.

 


End file.
